“Too much they do—too long they’ve done. I’m sick and tired of it. Go and take a swim and larn to find your own vittles honest when you come out, Pussy.”
“My word!” said the Waters, as a sprawling Cat landed all unannounced in the centre of the tail-race. “Is that you, Mewsalina? You seem to have been quarrelling with your best friend. Get over to the left. It’s shallowest there. Up on that alder-root with all four paws. Good-night!”
“You’ll never get any they rats,” said the Miller, as the young Engineer struck wrathfully with his stick at the sacking. “They’re not the common sort. They’re the old black English sort.”
“Are they, by Jove? I must catch one to stuff, some day.”
Six months later, in the chill of a January afternoon, they were letting in the Waters as usual.
“Come along! It’s both gears this evening,” said the Wheel, kicking joyously in the first rush of the icy stream. “There’s a heavy load of grist just in from Lamber’s Wood. Eleven miles it came in an hour and a half in our new motor-lorry, and the Miller’s rigged five new five-candle lights in his cow-stables. I’m feeding ’em to-night. There’s a cow due to calve. Oh, while I think of it, what’s the news from Callton Rise?”
“The waters are finding their level as usual—but why do you ask?” said the deep outpouring Waters.
“Because Mangles and Felden and the Miller are talking of increasing the plant here and running a saw-mill by electricity. I was wondering whether we——”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Waters chuckling. “What did you say?”